SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Gasps erupted.

“That… that’s higher than the Dragon Bone Iron haul!”

“Impossible! How did he get all that without fighting?!”

“It’s the damn pet!” someone shouted. “That One-Eyed Bandit’s a walking treasure compass!”

The gamblers’ faces drained of color. They had thrown millions into wagers expecting his humiliation—only to watch the “coward” emerge with a haul that could rival the top-position.

Kent only clasped his hands to the judge, as if nothing here was worth fussing over. The Bandit, however, gave the crowd another cheeky-grin, its one eye glinting with mischief.

–

Inside the Gambling House, the private box for the high-rollers was thick with smoke and curses.

Several gambling syndicate heads sat grim-faced, their plans having failed twice now.

“That brat…!” One heavyset man with scarred knuckles slammed his palm into the table, making the betting slips scatter. “We gave them precise locations! How could they not even scratch him?”

Another, wearing an embroidered jade ring, snarled, “He ran. Made himself look like a coward. Now half the fools outside will bet against him again. That’s exactly what he wants!”

They turned to the house manager. “Double the bounty in the next round. And remember—push his odds down to lure more crystal out of the fools.”

The manager nodded grimly but inwardly he shivered. This Kent King was proving far more dangerous than the gamblers’ usual prey.

–

The plaza of the Phoenix Range was still brimming with heat from the weighing ceremony. The great spirit scales had barely cooled from their glow, yet the murmurs from the crowd surged like crashing waves.

The final treasures had been weighed, and the ranking elders had finished marking the last tally. The air was tense enough to make even seasoned cultivators shift uneasily on their seats.

High above the crowd, the hundred-foot projection of the Aurora Screen still shimmered faintly, replaying brief snippets of disciples’ most dramatic moments inside the treasure land.

Gasps, curses, and cheers would ripple whenever a favored disciple’s face appeared. But now, the focus had shifted entirely to the center stage where the Syndicate Elders hovered, their robes billowing like storm clouds ready to break.

The Seventh Elder Zong’s eyes swept over the thousand disciples, his gaze sharp as a blade. “The results,” he said, voice echoing with spiritual force, “have been recorded. You all have witnessed the efforts of your peers—whether through courage, cunning, or pure fortune.”

Some disciples stood proudly with chests puffed, while others kept their eyes lowered, unwilling to meet the elder’s gaze.

From the spectator stands, gamblers were already leaning in close to one another, whispering figures and odds for the coming fights. The Golden Rat Gambling House’s operators were scribbling frantically, already calculating new schemes.

Fatty Ben, still chewing a roasted spirit bird leg, grinned from ear to ear. “Hah! This next round? Easy money.” He winked, already planning how to spin the odds in his favor.

Across from him, the other gambling houses’ faces were darker than the underside of a storm cloud. Their earlier underhanded attempt—feeding location hints to disciples to hunt Kent—had failed spectacularly. Now, their clients were demanding answers, and their rivals were snickering.

“Enjoy it while you can, Fatty Ben,” one of them growled. “The next round, your boy won’t have his little one-eyed rat to sniff out herbs for him. Let’s see if luck keeps him alive in a true fight.”

Below, the disciples stood in neat ranks. Kent, as usual, seemed utterly unmoved by the stares boring into him from all sides. He had his hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.

A group of top-ranked disciples—those who had already been lauded for their flashy treasure hauls—were quietly exchanging glances. A few of them smirked.

“So that’s Kent King? The one everyone’s making noise about?” said a young man clad in jade-green armor. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Don’t be fooled,” replied a tall woman with eyes as sharp as twin sabers. “The scales don’t lie. He gathered enough treasures to rank in the upper half. No flashy moves, no wasted strength… that’s dangerous.”

The moment of truth came when Elder Zong raised his hand. The murmurs died instantly.

“The third round is concluded. Of the thousand who entered, every treasure has been weighed. Your ranks are now fixed…”

Elder Zong’s fingers twitched—snap!

A pulse of golden light shot upward, splitting into a hundred streaks that coiled like serpents toward the vast Aurora Glass suspended above the plaza. In the blink of an eye, glowing names began etching themselves across its shimmering surface.

Each name flared briefly before fixing in place—brilliant for those who qualified, dull and gray for those who failed. The crowd’s breaths came faster as the list climbed toward the very top.

Then—

A single name blazed across the glass in radiant gold, so bright it hurt the eyes:

KENT KING – 1st PLACE

Gasps ripped through the stands. The gamblers froze mid-breath. Even some elders arched their brows.

Below, dozens of disciples whose names turned gray collapsed to their knees, fists pounding the stage. Their wails echoed like mourning drums. “No…! Not eliminated! I was so close!” Tears streaked faces once proud only moments ago.

And then the Aurora Glass shifted. Kent’s face appeared—calm, unhurried, untouched by the chaos—surrounded by a cascade of fiery crimson firecrackers exploding outward in rings of light. The image spun slowly for all to see, the golden mask catching every shimmer.

The crowd erupted into a storm of cheers, curses, and disbelief.

“First place?! That coward?!”

“Hah! Heaven favors the fox over the lion!”

“Mark my words—combat round will end him!”

Kent only lifted his gaze slightly toward the Aurora Glass, the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, as though the firecrackers were nothing but the smallest of amusements.

The elder made a second snap.

A hush blanketed the plaza. Even the wind seemed to pause.

Zong’s voice grew heavier. “The fourth round… will be combat.”

The single word struck like a thunderclap. Combat. No more gathering, no more hiding behind pets or clever tricks—this would be raw strength, skill, and killing intent.

Gasps erupted from the spectators. Gamblers sat up straighter. Fatty Ben’s grin widened dangerously, while his rivals clenched their fists.

Zong continued, “Half of you will be eliminated. Matches will be decided by rankings. Victory comes by knocking your opponent… or ending their life. Death will not be punished.”

The disciples shifted uneasily, some swallowing hard, others curling their lips into bloodthirsty smiles.

“Prepare yourselves,” Zong said, letting his gaze rake over them one by one. “The fighting begins at dawn.”

As the crowd erupted into speculation, the Aurora Screen replayed the highlights of the treasure round.